My hand was fixed to the wall. I wasn’t going anywhere. There was nothing I could reach from where I was. I would have to wait for the next stage of transit or some other opportunity.
I was feeling a lot more at ease with my situation. I’d been caught, I’d gone through the initial drama, and now I was sitting in a warm room with people who weren’t kicking the shit out of me. I wasn’t going to be there for ever, but apart from the pain in my wrist, it was nice and relaxed. The people here didn’t want to fill me in; they just wanted to talk about Gazza and Bobby Charlton. I had the hopeful thought-and even as I thought it I knew it was fruitless-that maybe this was the way ahead: that they were fed up with me and maybe I’d just be chucked in as one of Saddam’s human shields.
As the night wore on, my arm and hand started to hurt quite badly. I tried to keep my mind off the pain by going through the escape scenarios again, doing my appreciations.
Out of the top of the window I could catch a little bit of the stars. It was a beautiful, clear night. I looked back at the sleeping jundies.
If I managed to get away, could I get to Dinger? Where was he? I was assuming that he was on the camp somewhere, but was he next door? I couldn’t hear anything. Was he along the veranda? I came to the conclusion that I’d have to grab the opportunity if it came, but I couldn’t leave without making the effort to get hold of him. I knew that he’d be thinking exactly the same, as any member of the patrol would. Was it worth waiting until we were together? No, I’d grab any opportunity that came along. So-what was the first thing I was going to do? How was I going to find out where he was? Was I going to look through the windows for him or was I going to shout? Would his guards be awake?
You’ve got to have a game plan and contingency plans. Hesitation is fatal. I would avoid being overt if possible-that’s just another bit of madness from Hollywood. In the films they come at you one at a time so you can slot them neatly like ducks at a fun fair In real life everybody jumps in together and they kick you to pieces. It would have to be as covert as I could make it: just get out, get some firepower, get Dinger, get a vehicle. Easy! All that in an enclosed camp with troops, and me with maybe a 30-round magazine.
Once we were out we would just have to move west. On foot or in a vehicle? Crosscountry or through the town? The drive from the culvert to the camp had been very short: we were still close to Syria. Our next transit was bound to take us into more secure areas, further from the border.
I dozed off and woke in pain. My head was hurting, my body ached. I had to sort out the blood and snot in my nose.
I heard hooting in the distance and the sound of vehicles. The big corrugated iron gates were being kicked open. It was still dark. People were walking along the veranda outside, guided by Ully lamps. They were talking. I felt a stab of apprehension. What was happening now? I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself down. One of the guards woke up and gave the other two a kick. They got to their feet.
The five or six blokes who came into the room were strangers. I felt helpless, that little kid feeling you get when you know you’re cornered by the rival gang. They towered above me in the shadows and flickers.
When my hand was released from the wall it was well past the pins and needles stage. It was swollen and completely numb. Two blokes held me either side and lifted me up. Somebody handed me my boots, but my feet were too swollen to put them on. I carried them the way an old granny carries her handbag, clenched to my chest. I wanted to keep them; I didn’t want to spend the rest of my days without any footwear.
As they frog-marched me outside I played on the pain, moaning and groaning. I must have looked a right dickhead. The blokes did lots of mock “tut-tut tuts.” One pulled a face of feigned concern and said, “We’re really worried about you.”
The cold air hit me. It was a refreshing, bracing feeling, but I would have preferred to be back in Aunty’s nice warm room. I started to shiver. It was a beautifully clear night. If we managed to get away, we’d be able to navigate westwards very easily.
Nobody said where we were going. They dragged me along, and I had to take silly little steps because my feet weren’t carrying me properly. We stopped by a Land Cruiser, and they shoved me into the back with my boots on my lap. They squeezed the ratchets of my handcuffs and tied a blindfold painfully tight.
I tried to lean forward to rest my head on the seat in front to relieve the pressure on my hands, but a hand on my face pushed me back upright. The interior light shone through the blindfold. I could tell there were two in the front. The door slammed noisily and made me jump. I clenched my teeth, ready for a twat around the head.
I was sitting on the right. There was the sound of shuffling to my left, then I heard: “All right, mate, all right, mate.”
Dinger was honking as he hit his head on the way in. This was really excellent news. I instantly felt happy, that wonderful feeling again of being in it together.
He was positioned with his knees pressing against mine.
“Can you help my hands?” I asked into the darkness.
I got hit around the back of the head, but it was worth it. I’d let Dinger know that I was there, and I’d learn that there was a guard in the back with us and that these people meant business.
The driver sounded like an officer. “You, no talking. Talking-boom boom!”
Fair one.
Every movement brought a retaliatory prod from the guard, but I couldn’t avoid taking deep, sighing breaths because my hands were so painful.
The vehicle stank of the usual cigarettes and cheap cologne. I ran through an appreciation. This transit probably signified the end of the tactical phase. We were getting moved further down the chain. I had no idea whether it was going to get better or worse. The optimistic side was saying: Right, I’ll just go to prison now. The professional side was saying: Let’s wait and see. You don’t know what’s going on.
I tried to concentrate on keeping my orientation. We came out of the gate and turned left. That meant we were heading east, not west, so we weren’t going in the direction of Syria. As if we would. He was driving like an idiot. Normally you’d consider it very handy to have a crash, but at the speed he was going we would all die in the wreckage.
I once saw a film of Houdini clasping his hands behind his back and stepping through them to bring them round to his front. I wondered if I would be able to do it with the injuries. Then I thought: You dickhead, you’ve never done it in your life anyway, what are you on about? But I would have turned myself into an elastic band if it had meant getting away. All I needed was an opportunity.
I felt incredibly tired because of the heater and the heavy cigarette smoke, but the pain in my hands kept me awake. As if to make sure we stayed awake, they put on a cassette of Arabic music. It was so loud that at first I didn’t hear the bombs falling.
9
They must have been thousand-pounders. We heard several explosions; the area was getting severely hammered. The pressure waves hit us and the car rattled. The guards cursed. The vehicle stopped. I heard all the typical noises of disaster-the screeching of brakes, screams of pain and loss, shouts of panic and anger, a distressed woman crying, a child whimpering, metal scraping on stone. The driver and guards jumped out and cold air rushed over us. This could be our moment. The blokes had gone, the doors were open, but I could hear talking. I couldn’t see what was going on. It was unbelievably frustrating. I had to piece things together purely by sound. Was the road bombed? Was it an obstruction? Had he stopped to help somebody? And more to the point, were they now going to come around and fill us in, purely because we were white eyes and they’d just been bombed? The thoughts raced through my mind, but before I even had time to speak to Dinger, the Iraqis got back in and we started moving again.